Tag Archives: comedy

Jokes

I need to finesse my ChatGPT briefing skills This is supposed to be people in a pub listening to a joke.

When people used to congregate in pubs in large numbers and with great frequency – this is going back a few decades – they’d often end up telling jokes. Some were good, some were bad and there were many that you wouldn’t want to tell, much less hear, today. But they’d always be preceded by the joke teller saying something along the lines of:

‘Here’s a good one…’

‘Reminds me of the one about the…’

‘Did you hear the one about the bloke…’

‘Stop me if you’ve heard this one…’

So not only did everyone know that a joke was coming, they also knew that it had been told before; that it was a joke that was ‘doing the rounds’. It didn’t make the jokes any less funny that you knew this (assuming they were funny at all, but even then most people would chuckle out of politeness or early-onset drunkenness), but it did mean you knew the tellers hadn’t made the jokes up themselves. In my various circles of friends, colleagues and family members, I’ve never met anyone who’s actually made up a joke. And yes, I have asked. A timely bon mot or rejoinder, definitely. They can be funny as hell, but they’re generally of the moment. They don’t suddenly get shared by groups of people in pubs. If the exact same circumstances that provoked the funny response were to happen again, elsewhere, and you were there along with a group of people who hadn’t witnessed the previous occasion, and you remember the wording of the witty response and you get the timing right, then yes. You could pass it off as your own smart witticism and bask in the glory. But it’s a big if.

But something has changed. Well, a lot’s changed. People don’t go to pubs quite as much or as often as they used to. And when they do, I’m pretty sure they don’t stand around regaling one another with jokes. (I’m happy to be corrected on this.) People are still telling jokes on social media. But they’re not of the shaggy dog variety, with long set-ups before a (hopefully) side-splitting punchline. And they’re not snappy little knock-knock jokes, either. Jokes online generally include funny responses to items in the news, or comments made by public figures; or they’re observations about the human condition and the craziness of modern life. And they can be fucking hilarious.

The biggest change for me, though, is how people are quite happy to pass off what for the sake of brevity I will call ‘gags’ as their own work. I didn’t notice this trend on Twitter, but it’s rampant on Threads. People see a gag and instead of reposting it, they’ll go to the trouble (OK, it’s not THAT much trouble) of copy & pasting, just so that it looks like the product of their own wonderful sense of humour.

Why do people do this? I mean, it sometimes works if what they want is a few hundred likes and maybe a few extra followers, but what else in in it for them? And how does it make them feel? ‘Wow, that gag I nicked was really popular! I must steal more stuff from other people and develop a greater sense of fraudulently acquired self-esteem!’

I don’t get it. But then I’m someone who still laughs at doctor-doctor jokes.

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The Day I Met Bernard Manning

Younger readers, this is Bernard Manning.

It’s 1992. I’m a young, fresh-faced freelance copywriter which, amazingly, I still am. I’d picked up a few little jobs from a London advertising agency whose clients included movie studios like MGM and Universal. When Hollywood films were about to get a video release (VHS back then), they would come up with all the pre-publicity. Press ads, mostly.

I had a lot of fun coming up with adverts that were appropriate to the film being advertised, reasoning that this was a key element of my job. The agency had other ideas, though, by which I mean they preferred having no ideas. So they would generally reject my concepts in favour of a straightforward pack shot of the movie with the headline ‘OUT NOW ON VIDEO’.

But today my job is a bit different. I am to direct the comedian Bernard Manning in the recording of two 20-second radio scripts I’d written. They were to publicise the release of his own video, charmingly entitled ‘Banging With Manning’. It was billed as a ‘hilarious’ spoof of the sex education videos that were popular at the time. Still are, for all I know.

Manning. He was much bigger back in the day

The recording is to take place in a Manchester recording studio. The agency’s account lady and I travel by train and arrive just as Manning pulls up in an enormous Cadillac bearing the number plate 1 LAF. Really? One laugh? I’d heard his comedy routines were a bit hit and miss, but if I was him I wouldn’t shout about it. But no. We’re supposed to read it as ‘I Laugh’. Well, as long as one of us does, Bernie.

The driver gets out and opens the passenger door. Manning, not the lithest comedian on the circuit, grips various parts of the car to slowly lever himself out of his seat. He waddles across the car park and introductions are made.

“See the boxing last night?” He’s addressing me, correctly assuming that the posh young account lady wouldn’t care one iota about boxing. Neither do I, but I say I missed it while making a face that I hope conveys the idea that this was an unavoidable oversight on my part and that normally me and boxing are joined at the hip.

He sets off towards the studio entrance, with me and the account bod adjusting our walking pace accordingly. We’ll be there soon, I think. Manning is still on about the boxing. “I don’t mind black blokes punching shit out of each other,” he reveals, “but I don’t like it when they beat white fellas.”

I don’t have a face ready for a remark like this, much less a suitable vocal response. The account lady and I look at each other. This is going to be interesting.

And it is, only not in the way I’d been expecting. No sooner does he settle down in the recording studio, still angry about a white boxer being beaten by a black one, than my colleague gets a call from the agency back in London. Apparently, the body that oversees the suitability of broadcast advertising has belatedly taken objection to an element of the script. “Which script?” I ask.

“Both of them,” she says.

“What it is about them they don’t like?”

She hesitates. “The word banging.” But ‘Banging With Manning’ is the name of the product! This is going to be a challenge.

I glance at Bernard in the booth. Although I can’t hear anything, he seems to be asking the recording engineer questions about the equipment. What’s there to explain? Like all such rooms, there’s only a microphone and a pair of headphones. Surely he’s familiar with at least one of those.

“You’re going to have to rewrite the scripts,” says the account manager, “and quickly.”

I look for a place to, er, bash something out while the situation is explained to Manning. He’s not happy. He’s decided that blame for the episode should be laid at London’s door. “Fucking London,” he yells at everyone. “Fucking London idiots,” he adds, getting more specific.

Writing radio scripts isn’t easy. To be honest, I don’t find any writing easy. Those who come up with headlines like OUT NOW ON VIDEO probably do, but I don’t. And although I’m not what you might call precious, I do find a desk and a chair and a bit of peace and quiet help the creative process. Not writing in a corridor with a pad balanced on my lap, about a product I’m not allowed to mention while an enraged shouty comedian stomps about and an anxious account manager keeps reminding me of the time.

It gets worse. Once we’re in a position to get something down on tape, it becomes clear that Bernard is as unfamiliar with reading aloud as he is with basic recording equipment. He stumbles over every line, strays from the script, adds … pointless pauses and PUTS the emphasis on all THE wrong words. The agency didn’t bring an actual radio producer, someone skilled in the diplomatic art of getting the best work out of talent, and all the engineer does after each abysmal take is to ask hopefully “was that OK?” So it’s down to me to explain to an increasingly impatient Bernard that he needs to read a bit faster, or a bit clearer, or with less yelling and no gaps, and please can you wait until the microphone’s turned off before saying ‘fucking London wankers’.

Luckily, the studio – situated in a largely residential area just outside Manchester, as I recall – doesn’t have any other jobs lined up so we’re allowed to overrun. A couple of hours later we’ve got frayed nerves, a desperate need for strong drink but two commercials that even the most puritanical member of the radio clearance committee won’t have a problem with.

Recently I was clearing the loft and came across a whole bunch of my old radio ads on C30 cassettes, including the two with Manning. I ordered a bit of kit called the Tonor cassette tape to MP3 convertor, and stuck the least crap ones on my website. Grit your teeth and have a listen. 5th and 6th ones down.

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